And the glorious pesto turned to dry carboard in her mouth. A sip of the dry white wine threatened to shrivel her throat so badly that she had to gasp for breath.
“You okay?”
Erica tried to nod. Couldn’t. Tried shaking her head. Nothing.
“I’m not going to apologize for being the son of a trophy wife. Bibi’s awesome. Father’s first wife was an avaricious, spoiled shrew.” His voice turned angry, defensive.
She shook her head. That wasn’t the point at all.
“Dwayne—” was all she managed to choke out. He’d promised he was leaving his wife, but never did. Not for her. Not for poor little Erica. It had been a trap. A tease. A weapon in his arsenal of control. She had loved him, or thought she had—though it had never felt like what she’d always thought love was supposed to feel like—and he ha
